


Preferable Alternatives

by FadedSepia



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Endgame fixit, Fix-It, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Canon Compliant, Time Travel Fix-It, Welsh Cat Lady
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-09 05:13:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20989418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Steve knew he was flying half blind for the trip back; probably Earth as a destination, and hopefully after the end of the war. Maybe… “As well as I remember, last time it was somewhere in the Alps? I get the notion I’m not too near there, am I?”“Well, no, Sergeant. Not anywhere near there at all, I’m afraid.”Steve Rogers decides that, if he reallyisgoing to take the long way back to the future, he’s not going to let things carry on the way they had before.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elenorasweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenorasweet/gifts).

> This story started as a simple premise that Nora and I bounced around – at this point – close to six months ago: What _if_ Steve didn’t let things go on as they had? From there, it snowballed into a series of stories, of which this is the first. I am not sure how long this will be, or how far afield these stories may go, but I hope you enjoy these rambles.

**•☆•☆•☆•**

**ERROR**

** **•☆•☆•☆•**  
**

Steve knew he was flying half blind for the trip back; Bucky had learned a lot in Wakanda, but not enough to be any sort of technical genius. He couldn’t guarantee Steve much, other than _probably_ Earth as a destination, and _hopefully_ after the end of the war. _Maybe_. The suit was equipped to let him signal someone, provided there was anyone to listen, and Steve might survive in space for a few days, maybe even make it through reentry if he was very careful, but that would be pushing it. He had known that this last trip might be a one way ticket to oblivion, but that was an acceptable risk.

Subsequently, popping up in an empty shed, poking his head out to see real, shaggy, honest-to-god Earth sheep and the beginning of a sunset, was a welcome bright moment in Steve’s life, especially after the past few months.

He fiddled with the tech at his wrist, which gave a sad series of _brii-chirp!_ sounds as the read-out blinked. – _1-9-5-#!!# – ERROR ERROR ERR– _ Tapping at it, he silenced the warning tone and pressed the screen until the rest of the suit disappeared, nano-tech now collapsing inward to look like nothing more than a rather bulky wrist-watch.

Steve checked his clothes a final time. He hadn’t worn pants cut with this much room in years, and the real wool of his socks was too warm against his toes. Steve and Buck had been meticulous in getting this outfit right; if sweaty feet and swishy pants kept him period appropriate, then he’d deal with them.

There was no mirror in the little building, but Steve could make out his reflection pretty well in the face of the imitation analogue watch: A two day growth of stubble; hair natural, free of pomade, which meant it was already falling into his face; tired, but, perhaps, not quite properly haggard. Steve smacked his palms against his cheeks, hard enough to draw up tears, and put on his best lost puppy face. At worst, he would be late by fifteen years, but he trusted Tony’s tech and Bucky’s tweaks. It was time to head out there.

There was no one immediately in sight. Steve could see a low line of stacked stone fence silhouetted in the dusk beside a rutted-out road – barely wide enough for two cars, and muddy to boot – and, further along the property, a well-maintained little cottage. Hoping he looked non-threatening, he made a beeline for the house, knocking tentatively at the blue-painted door.

Steve could hear the shuffle of feet – thought he saw a flutter of the window curtain – and stepped back as he heard someone throw the bolt at the door. It cracked slightly, just enough to let him make out the reflection of glasses beneath thinning grey curls. “May I help you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but, well…” Steve already knew it was going to sound crazy, but he had to ask. “What year is it?”

“It’s ‘52, son…” The door closed a fraction before opening fully, revealing a very short woman in a plaid housecoat and slippers. She blinked up at him, concern clear on her face, voice soft, but with an undercurrent of authority born of managing people. There was a lilt in her words; definitely not American, but with neither the sharp clip he remembered from Peggy, nor the sonorous roll his mother would sometimes get. She gave him a once-over, head tilted to the side. “Are you looking for someone?”

“I, um, I lost my... my unit?” It wasn’t _exactly_ a lie.

“Oh...” True or not, his words had the intended effect. The older woman’s face went from suspicious to sympathetic, fingers grasping his forearm as she steered him over to a low bench beneath her front window. “Young man, you come sit right over here and I’ll call up to see who’s lost you. Have you got a name? Mine is Evelyn.”

“Um… Stev-” _Shit! _He hadn’t needed another _name_ for the rest of this operation. Up until now, when he was putting everything _back_, he hadn’t wanted to be seen. It would be best to stick with something simple and easy to maintain; Steve didn’t want to get caught, per se, but obvious wouldn’t be the _worst_ way to go. “Stevens. Sergeant Grant Stevens, ma’am. I was with the Howling Commandos in forty-four… but that was some time ago, it seems.”

“Don’t you worry about that.” She patted at his arm, again. “You sit right there, Sergeant Stevens. I’ll ring out for somebody to come get you. Someone has _got_ to be looking for you.”

Evelyn toddled back into her cottage, shutting the door behind her. Steve could hear her walk further into the home, followed by the click of the ear-piece lifting off the cradle of a phone. He didn’t know whom she might call, but he could listen in pretty well from where he sat.

_“Hello… Murray, is that you? … Not certain it’s cause for concern just yet, but there’s a man wandered up to my door just now. Seems to be lost, thought you might could help… Yes. Surname is Stevens… Mmhmm… Grant, he says… Oh, yes… Fairly tall, blond, but… No, no; American by the accent. Perhaps Canadian, but I don’t think so…”_

Steve set his eyes out on the road. It was – what had Tony always groused out? – idyllic; rolling pasture, a few plump, dozy sheep wandering through the light drizzle that was just starting up, not another house in sight for miles. If he had to pick a spot to fall into out of the future, somewhere like this certainly wasn’t the worst choice.

_“… Oh, no, no trouble. Poor fellow seems a little touched in the head… Do you remember how Nancy’s husband was when he came back from the front? … Yes, yes… Can you check if the hospital’s lost anyone? … Well, I can’t just leave the poor man out in the weather! … I suppose you could send someone around in the morning… Of course, I’ve got good locks on all my doors… Yes, thank you… Goodbye.”_

Evelyn stepped back out a few minutes later, settling down on the bench, setting a small tray with two glasses of milk between them. “Thought you could use a drink.”

“Thank you, Mrs…?”

“Myrick.” She picked up her own glass, but waited to take a sip until Steve had taken the other. “Where were you stationed last, Sergeant Stevens?”

Answering with the truth – _“Seventy odd years from now, in upstate New York.”_ – wasn’t going to make him seem any _less_ crazy. The next best answer would do. “Mrs Myrick, as well as I remember, it was somewhere in the Alps? I get the notion I’m not too near there, am I?”

“Well, no, Sergeant. Not anywhere near there at all, I’m afraid.” Evelyn Myrick nodded out to the field before them. “You’re in Wrexham.”

**•☆•☆ •☆•**


	2. Chapter 2

**•☆•☆•☆•**

**1952**

**•☆•☆•☆•**

**•☆• March •☆•**

Two constables had come by the morning after Steve arrived, questioning him while he sat in Mrs Myrick’s tidy front room. He had answered them, vaguely,_ sanely_, and in a way hehoped would tip them off to connect him with someone in the American military, but without first putting him in an institution. Steve had done his fair share of historical reading; he’d blow his cover before anyone got near him with any sort of pick. Curling in on the little brocade chair, keeping his gaze down and voice quiet as he petted at one of his hostess’ many cats had done the trick. The officers and Evelyn seemed to agree that he was_ a touch mental_, but_ hardly dangerous at all, really._

There had still been the offer of a drive into town, under the pretence of letting him call out from the post-office, but Steve had told the truth and ended that possibility; he honestly had no idea _who_ to call, at this point. Steve had posted a letter, since, addressed as vaguely as possible – _Agent M. E. Carter, c/o MI-5 or SSR, London_ – but hadn’t reached out otherwise. It was all Steve could think of, and at least made him feel like he’d done _something_. The people he was looking for – as well as the soon to be or just nascent organization of SHIELD – weren’t going to be easy for him to track down, especially not from a little farm cottage in Wales.

Steve had to content himself with finding ways to be useful where he was now, and there wasn’t a shortage of work. There were things to repair, and sheep to keep out of the motorway – thank god he’d listened to Bucky’s stories about all those goats – though he certainly wasn’t going to get worn out doing farm work. Mrs Myrick had agreed to let him stay in her spare room, sleeping across two of the smallest beds he’d ever seen – “_For my nieces.”_ – so long as he didn’t mind cats, of course. Steve didn’t, not usually, but getting used to waking up with two or three of them in bed with him had taken some time. He was all but certain it was only because he was always warm, whatever Evelyn might say about cats knowing a good soul. Either way, it seemed to convince his hostess that he was a decent person, even if he _was_ crazy, and, for now, that was enough.

**•☆• April •☆•**

Whatever nano-tech Tony had crammed into their suits, it was still semi-functional, though the screen continuously flashed the _ERROR_ message at him whenever he had it on anything other than the fake watch face. Steve clearly had no hope of fixing the issue, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going back, after all. He had even considered breaking the damn thing altogether, but… it might come in handy. In a way, it already was. The recorder function was still intact, as was the playback. Steve hadn’t been able to save very much – the cosmic joke of not having had enough time when Steve was literally _wearing_ a time machine hadn’t been lost on him – but he still had a few recordings from everyone to listen back on. Only listen, though, as whatever error had over-ridden the screen functions seemed to have disabled the projector as well. The speaker still worked, though, and that was enough; it had to be, since he didn’t have anything else.

Drawing had helped before, when everyone had- When half the planet had disappeared. Even with photographs, or with video, art had always helped, sketches reinforcing the memories of people Steve hadn’t been sure he’d ever see, again. Now, he didn’t even have photos. But Steve could draw; could put their faces to paper before he had time to forget.

He had taken to doing odd jobs around town soon after his arrival – painting and minor repairs, mostly – little things that earned him some folding money. With that, he’d ordered away for a student drawing set. At least he knew how to do _that_ still, even if he hadn’t ordered from a delivery catalogue since Sears and Roebuck. It had taken a few weeks, but Steve’s parcel had been delivered while he was on another job today, so he might as well use it.

Mrs Myrick had gone to bed just after nine, and Steve had started sketching, filling the time until he was certain she was more deeply asleep. It was nearly eleven when he finally spoke into the watch at his wrist, poignantly grateful for Tony’s insistence on making everything he created voice-responsive. “Engage continuous playback, starting with file; Barnes zero-one.” The watch beeped and, as Bucky’s voice started up, Steve reached for his pencil. _“Hey… Hey, Steve...”_

He answered; with all of Bucky’s pauses, and as many times as he’d heard it, Steve could almost pretend it was a real conversation. “Hey, Buck.”

“_So… one way, huh? That’s…”_

**•☆•**

“… _but it doesn’t always roll that way… Maybe this time…”_

“This time, Tony; I’ll make sure of it.”

“Sergeant? Are you speaking with someone?”

Steve had lost track of time, sitting on the floor as he hunched over the parlour table, one cat in his lap as he drew. He silenced the playback – _“I’m hoping…” _– hoping, himself, that it had been too low for Evelyn to tell it was someone else, as opposed to Steve just talking to himself. “I’m sorry, Mrs Myrick. I couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s not a problem a hardworking young man like you should have.” Evelyn smiled as she shuffled into the front parlour, plaid housecoat pulled in close, knitted slippers scooting her across the floor, trailed by another fat, meowing ball of fur. She stepped in close beside him, looking down over his shoulder at the sketches laid across her low table. “You are quite the artist, aren’t you?”

“It’s a hobby.”

“Well, it’s lovely.” Mrs Myrick hummed, head bobbing slightly as she looked down at the picture of Nat atop the pile. “Might I ask who they are?”

“They’re… they _were_ part of my old unit.”

“Ah…?” Evelyn smiled, bending to reach for the sketches, but waiting until Steve nodded his head before she began leafing through them; Natasha, Bucky, Bruce and Clint, Peter, Tony.

“He made this.” Steve spoke unthinkingly when she got to that sketch, still only half-finished, tapping his watch-face.

“A watch?”

“It’s a time machine.” Steve hadn’t meant to give even a half honest answer. “And kind of radio. I-” In for a penny, in for a pound, right? His hostess already thought he was insane, anyway. “He’s who I was talking to, when you asked.”

Evelyn stared at him, taking a slow breath before she turned around and walked away, back towards the kitchen. _Great_. He’d blown it. She was going to call the constable, the hospital, _whoever_, and have him hauled off for good, likely as not. That was what people did when men went crazy in their homes at – he finally glanced at the mantle clock – half past two in the morning.

Steve was internally debating the merits of running out the front door versus trying to sneak through the guestroom window when Evelyn came back to the parlour. She sat down next to him on the little settee, leg almost brushing his side, hands clasped as she held something in close to her chest.

“You know, Grant; I have one of those, myself.” Mrs Myrick set the object, a little bundle of fabric, in her lap, carefully opening the folds to reveal a tiny necklace watch on a silver chain. “Though I don’t know that it’s much of a time machine anymore, since it’s been broken for years, but… It was a gift from my Harold. He was abroad during the great… Well, I suppose it’s the _first_ great war, to you.” Evelyn nodded, sighing, again, blinking watery eyes back at him when she looked up.

Steve knew he was getting misty-eyed as the older woman stared back at him, sad earnest smile deepening the lines on her face. He nodded, gaze now in his lap.

“There are nights we all need our little things to remember better times, don’t we?” Evelyn Myrick stood up from the table, hand settling gently atop Steve’s head for a moment. Wrapping the little silver watch back in its cloth, she slipped it into her dressing gown pocket, starting the slow shuffle back to her bedroom as she spoke. “You keep good hold of your time machine, Sergeant Stevens. Just don’t sit up ‘til dawn talking to your friends.”

“No, ma’am.”

**•☆• May •☆•**

“Nobody ever _died_ from being butted by a little lamb, Grant, but I’ve seen a few broken bones from bad falls.” Mrs Myrick eyed him across the dinner table, round glasses sliding further down her nose as she inclined her head. “You took quite a tumble. Are you sure you don’t need anything looked after?”

Steve had been pushing away offers for someone to_ look after_,_ tend to_, or_ check up on_ the now long-healed abrasions and bruises the entire day. He’d never even_ seen_ a lamb or sheep outside of a butcher’s shop window until his first time in Europe, so Steve had been reasonably excited for the opportunity to help with shearing them. Steve just hadn’t realized that, while perfectly manageable one at a time, they were a bit more formidable in a group, even if they did look clumsy on their skinny, freshly shorn legs.

The hill he’d tumbled down hadn’t been_ that_ rocky, really, but he’d knocked into a fencepost hard enough to crack it._ Normal_ people didn’t just walk away from that sort of thing with barely more than a twinge. In spite of Steve feigning soreness all morning, then slipping away to _see to his back_, his well-meaning hostess was still on about it.“Thank you, Mrs Myrick-” She cleared her throat from the other side of the table, and Steve corrected himself, “-Evelyn, but I’ve… I’ve _tended_ to everything. Just a few little bumps, and I’ve… survived worse.”

“Mmm… Well, it’s a lucky thing you’re so sturdy then, Grant.” Mrs Myrick slid the plate of boiled eggs a bit closer toward him, nodding slowly at Steve from the other side of the table. “But healing takes eating, and you’re looking thin. Go on.”

“I’m really fine.”

She pinched her face in, pushing the dish until it nudged him in the arm. “You’re _certain_ you don’t want the doctor to come ‘round and have a look at you?”

Steve demurred and took another egg.

**•☆• June •☆•**

Steve yawned into his elbow, stepping to the side of the road to let a lorry roll by as he walked back toward the farm. He pulled down his cap, trying to keep the sun out of his eyes, wishing the breeze was stronger. There was barely enough to cut through the coveralls Evelyn had ordered for him after he’d offered to repaint the cottage and outbuildings. With a collared shirt, trousers, and both shorts and an undershirt beneath those, Steve was sorely missing his t-shirt collection; all these layers, even in the summer. It was such a pain in the ass, but these were the times Grant Stevens lived in, so he would just have to get used to it. He chuckled to himself._ Grant_ had taken less getting used to than he’d thought, and everyone aside from Mrs Myrick mostly called him _Sergeant Stevens_, anyway.

And, just last week, Sergeant Stevens had gotten a telegram, all the way out here, from the Home Office. It had gotten him a few strange looks, but he’d brushed it off easily enough – “_Guess I must have been someone important, huh?”_ – That telegram had been concerning this morning’s call, which had seen him sitting in the post master’s office, door closed as he spoke down the line to… _someone_ from London, or so he’d been told. When asked about his service history, Steve had given them his name – his_ real_ name and rank –and unit, along with mentioning Carter, Stark, and SSR; that had gotten him a very swift response –_“We will be in touch, Sergeant Stevens.”_ – before the line had gone dead. Hopefully, he hadn't shot himself in the foot. Or the head. Steve sighed, pushing his cuffed sleeves a little higher.

There was another truck coming.

Steve sidled closer to the hedgerow to give it room to pass.

**•☆• July •☆•**

At least they hadn’t come to pick him up until after his birthday. It hadn’t mattered to anyone but him – Steve hadn’t bothered telling anyone, either – but he wouldn’t have wanted to associate his birthday with being arrested. Or, more precisely, not with being arrested for something that wasn’t at least reasonably amusing. Seeing two government sedans roll to a stop in the middle of the lane had been very far from Steve’s ideal scenario; letting himself be handcuffed and packed into the back of one had been bad enough, but seeing poor little Evelyn handed into the second had been heart-breaking.

Maybe Steve should have gone out the window, after all. He still could; they weren’t going all that quickly. Of course, leaving might wind up injuring one of his far under-equipped guards, or causing even more trouble for Evelyn. This was what Steve had wanted, after all; to be found. However, four hours with an armed guard as they crawled their way to Cardiff was not precisely what he’d had in mind.

**•☆•**

The glass in his interrogation room was one way. Or, at least, it should have been, but there was just enough light on the other side for Steve to make out and recognize two all-too-familiar silhouettes that had stood, briefly, behind it. Steve glanced toward the mirrored glass, again; he was surprised he recognized Colonel Phillips. There had been someone next to him, but she was gone now. Still, Steve was hopeful that-

“Sergeant!” The man across the table from him – obviously not a staff sergeant, but trying a fair impression – snapped his fingers, jarring Steve back to looking at him. He spread a set of photos across the table, finger tapping at the central photo. “Can you identify this woman?”

“That’s-” Steve had literally just seen her only half a year ago, through her office window twenty years from now. He had copies of two of those same photos; the one of her in the field still saved on his phone back at Pepper’s, the clipping tucked into the compass that had been collected with the rest of his effects when they had turned out his pockets. Still, Steve choked a little on seeing the originals. He cleared his throat, gripping his pant leg and blinking a few times. He could have easily broken the cuffs to wipe his face on his sleeve, but that wouldn’t endear him to his current interrogator. “That’s Peggy. Margaret Carter. British Armed Forces, and MI-5. She was consulting with SSR when we met.”

“Mmm.” The photos were tucked back into their folder. “And your affiliation with Miss Carter, Sergeant… _Stevens?”_

“_Agent_ Carter was my liaison in the field after…” Steve’s mind drifted back to Erskine’s lab; Peggy had looked so concerned from the other side of the view window.

“Sergeant?”

“Well, sir, that operation was code-name classified.” He leaned back, feeling the steel of the chair digging into his shoulders, grounding him. This was still a mission; he was so close to succeeding. “I’m not at liberty to say too much about it.”

“I see. Then perhaps you could tell me this.” Steve hadn’t even wanted to let _himself_ touch his compass before he came back. He couldn’t help the immediate response to reach out and snatch it off the table; he stopped just short of snapping the cuff chain, but not before it rattled taught. The face of the man across from him deepened further into a scowl. “How did you get a picture of her, son?”

“I…” It had seemed pathetic even at the time, and he’d been carting it around in his pocket every day for a decade since, but – if that shadow against the glass had been who he hoped – Steve would gladly admit it. “Cut it out of the newspaper, sir. Supposed to take her dancing, but I think I missed that date by… by a pretty wide margin.”

**•☆•**

She set the clipboard down on the metal table, sitting across from the little old woman that General Phillips had insisted be brought across the whole of Wales for this interview. “Ma’am?”

Evelyn Myrick kept her hands clasped over her purse as she looked up. Her thin lips were pressed together, glasses perched far enough down on the end of her nose that it looked like they might slip off if she nodded too quickly. She lifted one hand to push them upward, clearing her throat before she spoke. “Yes?”

“Have you noticed anything unusual about Capt-…” Peggy Carter corrected herself as quickly as she could. “-about _Sergeant_ Stevens since he began lodging with you?”

The old woman frowned, side-stepping with her answer. “I don’t see that my lodger’s behaviour is anyone else’s business. Unless you’re going to tell me that Grant committed some sort of offense prior to taking up residence in my guestroom?”

“Not precisely. It’s simply that he’s been…” _Dead for seven years._ It was the truth echoing its way around Peggy’s brain, but she couldn’t blurt it out to the little old woman seated before her. Evelyn would not have believed that, and that seemed only a half-truth, now; Peggy barely believed it herself, even having just left the viewing room on his interview. “… He’s been _missing_ for quite some time. We would like to account for his whereabouts.”

“I suppose he must be someone important, then, if the Home Office is involved, but, I honestly can’t say. He just wandered up to my porch one evening like a lost dog, and he certainly hasn’t caused any trouble.” Mrs Myrick shook her head slightly, giving Peggy a pinched little squint. “Have we met before, Agent…?”

“Carter, and I can assure you we have not, Mrs Myrick.” Peggy cleared her throat, sitting back somewhat in her chair. There was something about the woman’s stare, almost as if Mrs Myrick knew something more was going on here, or truly did recognize her. It was unsettling, since Peggy had no recollection of meeting the woman prior to stepping into this room. “Have you noticed anything unusual about Sergeant Stevens? Any behaviour that you might call strange?”

“Well… Grant does eat an enormous amount, though I’ve no notion of where he puts it all.” Evelyn smiled broadly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It must be because he works so hard. I certainly could never eat like that; I’d look like a stuffed cushion.”

Peggy took a deep breath. This woman was determined to be difficult, seemed fairly bent on dragging this interview along. Maybe men like Ste- like the man they’d brought in with her just pulled those protective urges out of people. Whatever the case, it was also making Peggy’s job more difficult than it should have been. “Mrs Myrick, I understand your reticence, but this is a matter of utmost importance. Have you noticed any odd behaviour from Sergeant Stevens? Anything at all? Even if it’s only a little thing, it could be helpful – could allow us to help _him_ – if we knew.”

She hadn’t meant to sound that pleading and desperate when she spoke, but it seemed to soften up the older woman a bit. Peggy watched as Evelyn Myrick slowly nodded to herself, loosening the grip on her handbag.

“I… I suppose he can be a _bit_ strange, but given the circumstances… Grant is very private, more than modest, but… I suppose some men just don’t take to being helped. He doesn’t sleep terribly well; I’ve seen him go days without.” The older woman chuckled, head shaking with a sad little smile as she looked toward the mirrored viewing window. “And, of course, he talks to himself, but a lot of them do that, don’t they? Once told me his watch was a radio. Can you imagine? A radio, that size…” Evelyn looked back at her, countenance slipping toward sombre. “Poor Grant is a bit off his head, I suppose, but so _many_ of those boys were after coming back… The things they must have seen… Oh, but he’s never had those fits that some of them get, where they scream to wake the devil. Grant just sits up in the parlour with the cats all night, drawing his pictures and talking to himself.”

Peggy looked down at the clipboard, at her own looping script and an achingly familiar photograph of a young man in profile. “Nothing else?”

“No, I’m not at all sorry to tell you he’s a perfectly pleasant fellow, otherwise. Just keeps to himself and- That’s who you are.” Evelyn lifted her hand to her mouth, eyes widening above her lenses as she stared back at Peggy. “From his old unit… I had seen your picture, but I didn’t think any of you were alive, the way he spoke about it.”

“I beg your pardon?” Peggy felt her stomach drop, felt herself grip the clipboard, holding it closer to her chest. If Mrs Myrick had seen a picture of her before… If the man who called himself Sergeant Stevens really _had_ a picture of _her…_

“One of his sketches, up on my icebox.” Evelyn nodded sharply, voice authoritatively certain. “Yes, I’m sure of it. You’re holding a clipboard just like that in one of Grant’s little night pictures.”

**•☆•☆ •☆•**


End file.
